


All's Fair in Love and War

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Banter, Best Friends, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Humor, M/M, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7387708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is a battlefield, but battle can take many forms, and not all of them are unpleasant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All's Fair in Love and War

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [2000GigolasFics](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2000GigolasFics) collection. 



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> Legolas and Gimli, in Minas Tirith, decide to wrestle for fun - perhaps Gimli challenges Legolas - and end up making out!

Minas Tirith contained many surprises. Among them, Legolas and Gimli were surprised to find tunnels carved into Mindolluin, connecting dwellings and shops and even larger chambers used for diverse purposes. One day as they were exploring together not long after Aragorn’s wedding, a clamor of shouting drew them to one such, and they were surprised to behold an arena filled with spectators. 

As personal friends of the king, they were welcomed with great ceremony and escorted, with some embarrassment, to seats in the front row. There they took their places and were surprised when men came out, clad in tight singlets. The men were broad-shouldered and grim-faced, and they faced one another with ritual bows before a third man supervised them as they came to grips, then stepped back with a word that started the match.

Gimli raised a brow as the men began to struggle against one another, pitting strength against strength. “It is a contest of wrestling,” he exclaimed with some surprise and pleasure. “I did not know the men of Minas Tirith enjoyed such pastimes. Do elves enjoy this sport?”

“We do,” Legolas tilted his head, observing the spectacle as the men began to sweat and strain against one another. “But we do not use their rules, or wear such garb.”

“Elves engage in contests of strength?” Gimli was startled, and found himself more interested in the elf’s answer than in the contest before him. It seemed he was not alone in using the event as an excuse to enjoy time with companions. Many others among the audience laughed and talked among themselves as the two opponents struggled for a better grip, their feet shuffling on the taut canvas.

“We do.” The elf looked a little smug. “But for curiosity and fun rather than malice, rarely before an audience. And we do not bother with the need for a middleman, or for…” he shrugged, careless. “Costumery.”

“You fight fully clad?” Gimli looked askance at him, trying to picture one such as the Lord Elrond, who surely wore several stones’ weight of robes, attempting to fight while swaddled in so many layers of cloth.

“No!” Legolas laughed aloud, genuinely amused. Perhaps a similar thought had occurred to him. “You mistake me, my friend. We wrestle unclad, lest we ruin our garments and they be wasted.”

“Naked wrestling!” Gimli tasted the words with astonishment. “Well, there is a thing. I would have thought all would come to view such a spectacle, if there were bodies to be seen.”

It was Legolas’s turn to blink at Gimli with amazement. “Why would that make a difference? All may see one another in the baths. It is no strange thing to go unclad in company.”

“I never saw such company in Rivendell, or in Lothlórien, either!” Gimli chortled. “But I must say, elf, I would think it great folly indeed to do such a thing unclad. How would you protect your stones?”

Legolas blinked at that; on the canvas, one of the men forced the other back a pace, and the crowd shouted in response, temporarily interrupting them. 

“Our stones?” Legolas asked him, eyes sparkling with amusement, when the noise receded. He tried to look innocent.

“Your rocks.” Gimli cleared his throat, aware that he was flushing a bit, and that Legolas knew very well what he meant. “From being crushed in the fight, elf. There is armor for such; even these men wear it. Don’t give me that look.”

“We agree that such blows are off limits, and do not touch those areas for unfair advantage,” Legolas relented. His eyes still sparkled, though, and Gimli knew he still meant to tease.

“But still, there may be accidents,” Gimli persisted, but Legolas only raised a brow at him as if to imply elves were far too agile for such mishaps.

“We do not follow these rather crude rules,” Legolas explained, raising a brow as one of the men caught his opponent’s breeches and began trying to haul him from his feet using the fabric. 

“Well, there are rules and rules.” Gimli gave him a sidelong glance. “Dwarves wrestle in many different combat styles.”

“Do you.” Legolas turned his attention from the combat and gave Gimli a speculative look. “How do dwarves prefer to wrestle?”

That question brought heat to Gimli’s cheeks again, and he was glad of his beard, and of the warmth in the room; many faces were flushed and sweating. He considered his answer for a moment, and one of the men took advantage of his opponent’s slighter frame to push him back, then caught him about the waist. The two grappled and fell, but no pin could be made, and they rolled wildly, trading attempts.

“I have heard tell that the men of Harad wrestle with their bodies coated in oil,” Legolas volunteered. “Surely a barbaric practice. Do dwarves do such?”

Gimli harrumphed and turned away in haste. 

“You do!” Legolas crowed at him in triumph, and Gimli folded his arms, prepared to sulk if he must. He stared at the contest, which had shifted; now the smaller man had taken the advantage. His larger opponent appeared to be tiring quickly. 

“We wrestle in many ways. Oil wrestling is one,” Gimli answered reluctantly. “Our largest warriors favor others, but young and agile dwarves who value speed and trickery like the added challenge.”

“What methods do your old warriors favor in wrestling?” Again, that spark of amusement flared in Legolas’s eyes. 

“Strength and endurance,” Gimli answered promptly. “We—get that look off your face, elf. I know when I am being mocked.” He shook a finger at his friend. “We are strong, yes, and we endure well in many contests, both hostile and not. But we are discussing combat! And in combat, I would match a dwarf against any other creature, both in terms of strength and of ability to endure.” He folded his arms, defensive. 

“Perhaps, perhaps. But wrestling is not all a matter of strength,” Legolas speculated. “There are also factors involving speed and strategy—and size.”

Gimli shot him a sidelong glance, suspicious of further mockery, but the elf’s face was smooth. Perhaps too smooth. “Aye, that is so. But they can be compensated for.” 

Legolas raised a brow, and now Gimli was sure the elf was sending him up; it seemed he was destined to fall into trap after trap in this conversation. Of course, he and the elf had been flirting, delicately dancing around one another, for some time. This was by far the most daring exchange they had ventured. 

“What manner of wrestling do you favor, Gimli?” Again, Legolas’s face was perfectly innocent. He gave a vendor a coin, accepting a strip of dried beef in return. Gimli in turn passed coin to a vendor in exchange for ale, and sipped it while he considered his answer.

“I favor the back-hold.” It was Gimli’s turn to keep his face smooth and his tone innocent. Legolas nearly choked on his mouthful and turned in haste to survey him. 

“The… back-hold?” He sounded faintly intrigued, possibly horrified, and Gimli chuckled. 

“Aye. One competitor stands behind the other, arms wrapped around his waist.”

Legolas considered this at length while Gimli savored his ale, deciding at the last minute to cheer for the smaller competitor, who looked set to win the match. The larger wrestler was surely exhausted now, gasping for breath; it was only a matter of time before his shoulders touched the mat.

“How does one… win?” Legolas asked faintly.

“The match is lost when one of the wrestlers touches the ground with anything but his feet.” Gimli chortled as the smaller wrestler pinned the larger man’s shoulders to the mat. “Say, his knees, for example.” 

Legolas’s eyes narrowed. Gimli sipped at his ale contentedly, refusing to let his mask of nonchalance slip. 

Two more men came forth to do battle, and Legolas stared at them for a long moment, thinking. They were both slight and quick, and the match moved much faster than the previous pair, shoving aggressively back and forth across the canvas. They rolled and darted and squirmed, neither seeming able to fasten the other down. 

“It would be interesting to see how the wrestling styles of different races compare to one another, but it seems there are only men here.” Legolas finished his dried beef and reached for Gimli’s mug. 

Gimli huffed and let him take a swig, then reclaimed it for himself. “Too peppery for you, elf?”

“It was not the freshest beef,” he admitted, making a face. “But I do not like waste.” 

One of the wrestlers caught the other in what seemed an impossible tangle, forcing his shoulders down, and the match was ended. 

“We should make a wager on the outcome of the next contest,” Gimli decided. 

“Oh? What would we wager?” 

Gimli considered this for a time; while he thought, two females emerged from the wings and prepared to fight.

“Ah, now we have found the reason for the enthusiastic audience,” Gimli elbowed Legolas familiarly. Sure enough, the volume of the crowd redoubled as they began. “If these females wrestled clad in the elvish style, men would crowd in here so tightly there would be no air left to breathe!”

Legolas winced. “It is a rather less formal style of wrestling than that to which I am accustomed,” he admitted, as one of the women seized her opponent’s hair in her fist. “They sound like a pair of spitting wildcats!”

“A gold sovereign on the redhead,” Gimli wagered. 

Legolas laughed. “I will match your bet. The redhead is fiery, but the blond has a greater reach. She will prevail.” 

“Oho, is that the way of it?” Gimli threw back his head and laughed. “If my wager is lost, then I will challenge any champion the men care to put in the ring!”

Legolas regarded him with surprise. “Would you go so far, then?” He shook his head. “I will not take that wager, for fear you should be hurt.” 

Gimli puffed out his chest, offended, but the elf was not finished. “I will agree to wrestle you, should your wager be lost. But not before an audience, and we will agree on our rules before we begin.”

Gimli was so startled he agreed without thinking. “Aye, I’ll take that wager,” he said, then scowled as the redhead lost her hold and the blond lost a considerable quantity of hair with it. 

“For example, that hold is entirely forbidden,” Legolas told him sternly, and Gimli could not help but agree. 

“I will not harm your hair if you will not damage mine,” he said, and Legolas nodded firmly.

“But we will not wrestle in the elvish fashion,” Gimli hastened to specify. “That is, with prohibitions upon the holds we may use,” he hastened to add. “I care not what you wear. But all holds and throws save scratching, biting, punching, pulling of hair, and attacks upon the groin are permitted.”

“Am I not allowed to attack the groin?” Legolas pulled a long face, but the mischievous sparkle was back in his eyes. 

Gimli huffed again. “Impertinent elf.” 

“Surly dwarf.” Legolas began laughing openly. 

The match was rather more interesting now that the stakes were personal, and Legolas and Gimli both called encouragement to their chosen champions, who fought with spirit and vigor. They rolled, shrieking and clawing, until the middleman issued a warning. When they reset, it was obvious Gimli’s champion was flagging; her opponent gained the edge at once and before long, she pinned her to the mat. A quick count ended the match, and Gimli scowled at his empty mug.

“Let us go, elf! I have seen enough,” he proclaimed, and they departed together, leaving Gimli’s mug on a tray of empties by the door. 

As they walked through the corridors together toward the out-of-doors, relishing the feel of fresh air on their faces, Gimli reflected on their bargain and was surprised to find himself eager rather than timid or nervous. He thought he had a rather good chance of defeating the elf, if they limited the contest to mere wrestling, and if Legolas made good on his flirtatious comments… well then, perhaps there need be no loser. 

He glanced at Legolas, trying to be unobtrusive in his study, but if his friend was troubled by the implications of their bargain, he made no sign.

“We will need a private, empty space,” Gimli muttered. “Soft enough to allow for falls without injuries.”

“There is a peat turf nearby the river, just beyond the bounds of the Pelennor,” Legolas suggested lightly. “We might use it. The ground there is damp, but it is soft and springy, and there are no stones.”

“Aye,” Gimli agreed, and his heart made a swift, secret leap inside his chest. Their arena would be well-secluded from the city, with no chance for spectators other than the occasional curious sheep.

They stopped by their quarters to make certain preparations, then found Arod in the stables and rode out, somehow comfortable in silence together despite the prospect of what they were about to do. Gimli tipped his head back to see the stars, which hung so low in the clear, cool early autumn sky that he thought he might almost touch them.

“Vingilot,” Legolas said, pointing to the brightest star in the sky, which hung low on the horizon. “It is said to be the ship of Eärendil, bearing the silmaril upon its prow.”

“Dreams and fancies,” Gimli said, dubious, but Legolas only laughed, a tolerant huff of breath. 

“Do not say so before the lord Elrond. It is his father who steers the ship through the night sky!”

Gimli peered up at the star again, but it looked no different from any of the others, except that it shone more brightly. He shrugged. None he knew had ever visited a star; who was he to cast aspersions on the lord Elrond’s father?

They followed a fold of ground down to the spongy marshlands near the river, where Legolas reined Arod to a halt and dismounted lightly, reaching out for Gimli. 

“Did you bring oil?” Legolas asked him, his tone still carefree. 

“I would hardly come to a wrestling match without it,” Gimli informed him, pretending great offense at the question, but Legolas only laughed at him and turned away. He moved to stand by one of the small streamlets that fed the great Anduin. As he went, he shed his suede over-tunic and tossed it aside.

Gimli’s mouth went dry; beneath it Legolas wore a thin cotton shirt, closely fitted to his body and tapered at the waist. It was translucent from perspiration, and in the moonlight it glowed like pearl over ivory. Willows grew on the verge of the water, their slender limbs rustling in the breeze, long branch-fingers trailing in the water. Legolas’s tunic fell over one, and his shirt soon joined it, leaving him to gleam under the moonlight, pale and perfect. 

His hands went to the waist of his breeches, and he paused, looking over his shoulder.

“Will you wrestle fully clad?” His voice was soft, the tone rich with laughter. His hair followed him, the golden hue dim by starlight, so that compared to his skin, it was a shadow. Yet it too shone, soft and luxuriant, and Gimli swallowed thickly as Legolas drew it back in a hasty braid.

“Indeed, I won’t.” Gimli stripped himself rather more slowly, but he stopped at the last layer—a singlet, which his kin would find quite appropriate for wrestling hand to hand before spectators. Let the elf complain, if he would; Gimli suddenly felt shy and tentative, unsure which layers of meaning applied to their wager. He had no armor for his stones, but he would trust in the elf’s honor to protect them. He folded his tunic and breeches, leaving them in a neat pile near the horse, who applied himself to the grass at once, savoring the soft, rich green, so superior to the hay of the stables.

Gimli knew he was stalling, and he steeled himself, leaving the flask of oil he had brought lying atop the pile and flexing his hands, regarding Legolas and lifting his chin in challenge.

Legolas smiled, and with a swift motion he stepped out of his low boots and stooped, leaving his breeches lying on the green. 

Gimli forced himself to fix his gaze on the elf’s face, though he yearned to look his fill at all of Legolas’s body. 

“How will we proceed?” Legolas’s voice was smoky-dark with promise, and Gimli had to swallow twice before he could force enough air through his throat to answer. 

“That depends what sort of wrestling we will do,” he managed to say. 

“I prefer to begin belly to belly,” Legolas said, low and sultry, and approached Gimli with a predatory, gliding step, then set his hand on Gimli’s collar.

In answer, Gimli clasped his elbow, and they arranged themselves thus, though it was awkward for the elf, who had to stoop.

“You have chosen to put yourself at a disadvantage.” Gimli heard the hoarseness in his own voice. “This style of combat favors the shorter competitor.” The smooth, bare skin before his face carried the warm scent of Legolas, and the breeze brought it to Gimli’s nostrils, which flared, seeking more.

Legolas only smiled. “I am confident in my skill. We have no middleman. Let us agree when we will begin.”

“I will count three.” Gimli drew a deep breath. “In this style, the match is won when one of us pins the other at shoulders and hips for a count of five.”

“Agreed.” Legolas shifted his grip slightly. “Begin your counting.”

“One.” Gimli glanced down without thinking, then jerked his gaze back up, blushing furiously. 

Legolas’s smile deepened, but he remained still. 

“Two.” Gimli shifted his feet; he had never done this with such a tall opponent, and was unsure what strategy the elf might employ.

Legolas drew a slow, deep breath, and Gimli felt him settle in some subtle, almost alarming way—as if he had rooted himself in the strength of the earth, centering himself, immovable. 

He tried to do the same, wishing for the firmness of stone under his feet, not the cool and slightly squashy ground. Water welled close to the surface here, and that was no solid stone for a dwarf to root in. Better for a tree—or for an elf.

“Three,” he said nonetheless, and brought his strength to bear. 

Legolas was ready, and aside from a slight shiver as force met force, they did not stir. Well-matched, they stood firm, cautiously testing one another, gradually increasing pressure: muscle versus muscle, blood surging and warming. No advantage could be had in strength alone, it seemed. Though Legolas was in an awkward position, he stood as solidly as a statue carved into living rock, and could not be moved.

Likewise, Gimli did not yield, other than his heels sinking deeper into the spongy turf. Adrenaline had begun to sing in his veins, and he felt the thrill of uncertainty as he contemplated his first move. Legolas’s skin felt warm and silky under his hands, and he looked forward to feeling more of it, and to testing himself against the elf’s unexpected power.

They struggled against one another for several minutes, Legolas’s breath harsh in his ear, and Gimli soon realized the competition was a stalemate. He could not reach the elf’s legs to trip him, and his low center of gravity combined with Legolas’s stooped posture prevented the elf from bringing enough leverage to bear against Gimli to overthrow him. 

Just as he realized it, something soft and warm tickled at his ear: a gentle tide of air, and he was so startled he stumbled when Legolas rapidly twisted. In the blink of an eye he found himself on his back with a blanket of warm, naked elf.

Instinctively he twisted his shoulder free to avoid the pin. “What was that?” he cried with good-natured outrage. “I cry foul!”

Legolas laughed, low and breathy; Gimli kicked his feet against the ground, lifting his hips, and rolled them. “You blew in my ear!” He insisted, groping after Legolas’s arms in an attempt to contain them.

“It was not against the rules, and it worked.” Legolas squirmed, sinuous, and evaded him. “You should have wrestled in the elvish style; I could not have used your clothing against you. It offers a grip.”

“Should I strip and oil myself to give you a proper challenge?”

Legolas’s eyes darkened. “By all means, for our next match.” He very nearly trapped Gimli’s arm, but Gimli evaded him with sheer strength, lifting him away. 

“A second match, eh?” He liked the sound of that nearly as much as he liked seeing the elf spread out beneath him, golden hair flowing, having escaped its loose braid. “Or perhaps best two of three?”

Legolas wrapped a leg around Gimli’s and tumbled him; now the silky golden hair cascaded around his face. Gimli tried to free himself and failed, but he still had both arms, and he used them to trap one of Legolas’s. 

Legolas laughed, sacrificing the arm without struggle, and leaned in. “As many as you care to venture.” He nuzzed a kiss against Gimli’s mouth, and somehow when it was done, Gimli found himself pinned, though he still had a firm hold on Legolas’s arm. “I count five,” Legolas whispered, eyes dancing.

“Treacherous elf. I demand a rematch,” Gimli muttered, husky. He lifted himself, escaping easily, and rolled them back again, sitting astride Legolas’s hips. He gazed down, moving to unbutton the top of his singlet. Legolas watched with shining eyes, letting his arms subside to lie spread around his head. 

“An effective tactic,” he murmured. 

Gimli continued with his buttons until the singlet slid from his shoulders and settled around his waist. “Hmmm,” he rumbled, running his palms along the elf’s chest and arms. Legolas’s finely-chiseled body answered well to a craftsman’s touch, perfectly engineered planes and curves and angles that fit just so in Gimli’s hands, as if made for him. “It is one I will definitely look for in future bouts.” He leaned in and considered the pale column of neck before him. 

“I will have to devise a counter for it,” he said, letting the words brush his lips against Legolas’s skin, then set his teeth at the join of throat and shoulder for a tantalizing love-bite. Legolas moaned and arched beneath him, but he was not thrown. 

“Use the elvish style,” Legolas urged, his hands sliding down Gimli’s back to curl beneath the cloth and settle over his hips, rocking him against Legolas’s belly. “We would not want to waste such a fine chance,” he explained, still filled with mischief even in this moment, and Gimli could not disagree.

“Something to that idea,” Gimli admitted, husky-voiced, and rose, stepping to one side. The singlet fell to his ankles, and he hesitated there, aware that Legolas surveyed him even as he spent a moment gazing down at the elf, pale skin shining with moonlight and starlight as if gathering it all to himself. All about him, white puffs of cotton grass shone like a constellation of stars. Gimli knelt over him again, tenderly, and laid his fingertips at the base of the elf’s throat.

“I will fashion you a jewel of your own, a perfect sapphire to rest here, for you outshine the star of Eärendil with your radiance. Though you need nothing more to enhance your beauty, I would give you an adornment to show you are beloved above all things to this dwarf,” he said, voice hushed. 

“Rest your head there each night to sleep, and I will know myself more beloved than Lúthien,” Legolas whispered, reaching for him. “But I will proudly wear any jewel you give me, to boast of your regard.”

With that Gimli kissed him, and he did not stop. He cradled Legolas’s head in his broad palms and savored his mouth, rocking his hips against Legolas. The elf lifted up to meet him and moaned, inviting more sweet exploration and venturing his own, each of them striving to bring the most pleasure to the other, well-matched in tenderness as well as striving as they ventured many styles. They made use of Gimli's oil in due course, and found it served them very well.

Murmurs and cries filled the air, mingling with the trickle of the book and the sighing of the wind, and the stars shifted slowly overhead in serene and joyful witness as the rift between dwarf- and elf-kind closed and sealed, and neither found a loss in its ending. They found victory in one another instead. Though strength met strength and reveled in it, there was comfort and safety as well, for weaknesses were revealed in equal measure and protected with care and kindness.

When the sky finally began to grow pale in the east, showing the craggy silhouettes of the Ephel Duath, the light found Gimli resting on Legolas’s chest, half-drowned in slumber, lazy and sated. Legolas’s fair skin showed the dapple of love bites and the prints of fingers that had clutched too tightly in pleasure; he twined his long fingers in a stray lock of Gimli’s beard, taming it to curl around one of them, smiling. The dew had settled in Gimli’s hair, a faint diamond mist gleaming in the growing light, and Legolas watched it with pleasure until the sun had risen high enough to burn it away before he roused Gimli.

“I would not have the sun burn you, _meleth_ , lest it delay our rematch,” he teased, running his hands over Gimli’s bare skin and savoring the warmth of it. “And this ground is damp against my skin.”

“A more suitable venue is needed for our style of combat,” Gimli mumbled in sleepy agreement, and licked the hollow of Legolas’s throat. His stomach rumbled. “And breakfast, as well!” 

“We still do not know who would win a fair bout between us,” Legolas rolled gracefully upright, then stood and offered Gimli his hand.

“All’s fair in love and war,” Gimli chuckled, and accepted his hand. “Does it matter?”

“Surely not,” Legolas’s smile shone bright as the dawn.

Together, they rode back to Minas Tirith to find breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy your Fourth of July! (Even if you're not American. Use any excuse you like for celebrating! ^_^)


End file.
